I wonder what she really is, and what her name will be
I often try to picture her as she takes us out to sea,
I don't expect a beauty, as I know there will be few,
But even if she's very old, for us I am sure she'll do,
Her beauty and her colour and her style might all be gone,
Maybe she's not working, but lying idle, all alone,
But on that day she does her job, off her path she will not roam,
But comrades keep your chins up, she's the boat that takes us home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem